


The Tale Of An Archival Assistant.

by Urbenmyth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A cliche good ending but it's bad actually, Bad endings, Jon and Martin also show up!, Tim/Sasha if you squint, stranger!sasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27985524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Urbenmyth/pseuds/Urbenmyth
Summary: Being the story of...Sybil? Stacey? Skye?...Being the story of Someone, at least.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	The Tale Of An Archival Assistant.

She doesn’t remember where she is.  
  
She doesn’t remember who she is.

She was scared, she knows that. She might still be. She was running and she was scared and she was hiding. What was she scared of? Something...sick, she thinks. Something that loved her, maybe. She doesn’t remember the details.

She doesn’t remember much at all.

She remembers she hid. And…

Something took something from her.

She can’t remember what, but it was important. It was important and it stole it and it hurt and now she’s lost.

She’s very lost.

She staggers through the streets. People don’t look at her, as if they can’t see her. She talks to them, but they don’t respond.

She thinks she might be dead.

She knows she should be dead.

Why isn’t she dead?

“Nothing is forgotten by the Eye.” The thought bubbles up, not hers but not _not_ hers. “to serve the Eye is to be always known”.

She doesn’t know what that means,

She doesn’t know what the Eye is.

She’s not even sure she knows what _an_ eye is.

But she knows its telling her to return. To go back.

She staggers to the building covered in owls. Someone is there. She knows it. She sees it through an Eye. She sees there is someone important there who can explain what happened to her.

She says she has something to say to the woman at the desk. Does she know her? The woman smiles, polite but not friendly, and waves her in.

They tell her to wait. They let her sit there, and no-one calls her. They don’t notice her. She’s still sitting there, because what else can she do, when the man leaves the room.

He has dark skin and long hair, and he turns to see her. “Can I help you?” he says. She doubts it, but she says yes. She says she has a statement to make.

He’s serious, but not cold. Professional. As if talking to someone he’s never seen before.

Is that what he’s doing? She doesn’t know.

 ~~He was always so serious even to people he~~ ~~knew~~ ~~well.~~

“Hello. I’m the head archivist, Jonathan Simms.” For a second, she feels a pang of envy that he can say his name so easily. He’s “Jonathan Simms”. While she’s...Sabrina? Sarah? Seonaid?

What’s her name?

He takes out a tape recorder. “Please speak into the microphone”  
  
She agrees.  
  
“Now. How would you sum up your supernatural experience?”  
  
She says someone stole something from her. Someone took something and she needs it back. He needs to help her get it back.

“Statement regarding a serious theft. Statement taken...ah, I’m sorry. Slipped my mind. What’s your name?”

She starts to panic. His face softens.

“It doesn’t have to be your legal name, if that’s uncomfortable. Just a full name. For archiving purposes.”

Sophie (Susan? Sierra?) starts to cry. The man looks shocked, and begins to apologize, but she runs before he can speak. She runs past and into the street.

She cries, and no-one notices to help. Time passes.

The eye she cannot see leads her to a small building.

It’s an open mic night. The man, tall and round ~~and kind~~ , is reading a poem about identity. About how people can change, and change so subtly that you never notice. About how you might stand near a stranger and never know it.

She relates, although she’s not sure he does. Not really.

She talks to him after the show. He smiles nervously.

“Oh, h-hello. I’m Martin. You...probably knew that from my set. Heh.”

She says she liked his poem.

“Oh? Can I ask why? I’m looking for feedback, you know”

She wants to say “Because it was about me.”

“Because I have no face or name.”

“Because the poem was about how you lost me, even though you don’t know it, and if you knew it you would embrace me and you would say you loved me and I would remember my name.”

She doesn’t say that.

She says something non-committal and positive, and he smiles, and goes back to sitting in the corner.

She leaves.

She walks the streets, and time passes. She doesn't know how much.

She walks, following a gaze, and finds two people sat in a coffee shop.

The man is pale ~~and~~ ~~handsome~~ , bright shirt, laughing and smiling. And next to him sits a short blonde woman. The woman goes deathly pale, her face cycling between rage and fear, before settling on smiling disdain.  
  
“Excuse me, can we help you?” The woman says, eyes narrowed. The furious terror is still visible in her eyes. The man looks appalled. “Sasha! Don’t be rude!”

He grins at her

“Hello! Tim Stoker, pleasure to meet you! How can we help you out?”

He’s happy and bright and looking at him makes...Shannon? Susan? Syndee?...want to cry. He notices, and his flirty smile drops. ~~It always did when things got serious.~~

“Hey. Are you alright? I’m sure we can find help…”

“I think she needs more help then we can give” The woman says, still glaring at her. Why is she so angry? She didn’t do anything to her. She doesn't even know her.

Or...wait...

“We can call the authorities. She’s clearly sick…”  
  
She isn’t listening to what the man says in return.

She does know this woman.

She knows that face, that voice.

_They’re hers_

She charges at the woman. Tim tries to stop her, but he can’t grab what isn’t really there. She grasps at the woman’s face and pulls. She pulls and screams and the woman screams and Tim screams and something else that isn’t a woman screams.

An eye finally turns away, and she cannot see through it. Perhaps something replaces it? She is not in the mood for philosophy.

She simply grasps tighter, and she pulls something clean off. A face. And underneath, a name.

Hers? It must be hers.

She cannot tell if it is a Suzanne or a Selina or a Sloane, but it’s hers. Isn’t it? It feels warped, twisted, and she's not sure it fits anymore. Why does she still not know who she is? The man looks in anger and fear, and then confusion, and then…  
  
“Wait” he says.  
  
“You... _You’re_ S…”  
  
She knows in an instant. He’s going to say her _name_. And she reaches out to take it.

~~Perhaps she reaches too far.~~

There is a scream.

And

She stands up.

She looks at herself in the glass window. Pale, bright shirt. She tries a smile, a laugh, a finger-gun, and they feel...almost right. Like a comfortable lie.

“Hello! Tim Stoker, pleasure to meet you! How can we help you out?” she says, and smiles.

At last she has a name. Timothy Stoker.

She supposes it will do for now.


End file.
